Runner offers thanks for lessons from race

I agreed to the challenge of running the Barbecue Festival Hawg Run, and first and foremost my doctor approved, but there were certain aspects I missed most about a race.

Antionette Kerr

I agreed to the challenge of running the Barbecue Festival Hawg Run, and first and foremost my doctor approved, but there were certain aspects I missed most about a race.There are the physical perks like a unique adrenaline rush of race day anticipation and the exhilarating moment of completing a goal at the finish line. Then, there are a few life lessons I consider to be the greater rewards.My very first big race took place around the sixth grade at Lexington Middle School. As a pre-teen I teetered between playing with dolls and Sunday football games with the boys. We often played in my grandmother's front yard. I was highly competitive until the dreaded day (the one my older female cousin warned me about). Puberty struck and suddenly things such as tackles and catching the football hurt in odd places.One male cousin accused me of "starting to play like a girl." He was right. I quit playing rough with the boys, but I held on to the notion I could still beat most of them running. So after talking smack in gym class, I was challenged by the fastest boy to a race that would take place on the road behind our middle school. It was all the chatter in the hallways, and after school people gathered to watch the match-up, boys against girls. He and I stepped up to our respective starting spots, and a mutual friend shouted "on your mark, get set, go!"I took off running, threw my head and shoulders back and looked up at the sky. I was flying and we were so close, until I felt my foot slide under something bulky. A student who wasn't paying attention had slung out his book bag, and I flew over it with my palms extended like Superwoman. It felt like I slid for a mile. Next thing I knew, I was being rushed to the hospital, but despite the pain, all I wanted was to be reassured that I was winning the race. My best friend finally worked up the nerve to tell me I wasn't winning.Today, I still have a scar on my right palm. It reminds me of the day I accepted womanhood. I quit challenging boys to races, and since I couldn't beat them, I made the fastest boy in the class become my "boyfriend." "Stop running with your head back," Macon England insisted almost every track practice in high school, but no matter how many times he chastised me, I couldn't help it. Or so I told him. I liked looking skyward. He'd say something like, "That's fine if you're praying, but not if you're running." Macon was hilarious as our girls' track coach, often giving us football analogies that made us scratch our heads, but there were some real track stars on our team. Unfortunately, I was not one of them. My main event was the 400-meter dash and the 1,600-meter relay. I enjoyed track but was warned several times that my troubled breathing might prevent me from continuing. Both Macon and my mom agreed that my strategy of run, fall out and hyperventilate would permanently end my track season if it happened again. I convinced them to let me compete in a home meet, when the best 400 runner on our team was gone. She had consistently won the event with a time of 1:03, and I had worked up to a 1:05. This was my only chance to win, so after begging and pleading they let me enter the race. I sprinted so hard on the first 200 meters that I was well ahead of the pack. I could hear Macon yelling, "Kerr, pace yourself" just before things started becoming blurry, and I heard nothing outside of my own gasping for air.I dropped onto the football field just before the finish line. On the way to the hospital again all I wanted to know was if I was winning the race. The answer was no. That was the end of my track career, and I learned that the real test to any race is not how well you start but how well you finish.So after years of sitting on the sidelines, my friend, Kivi, challenged me, knowing about my new and improved lung capacity, to run the Hawg Run 5K. We spent mornings and evenings training. She and I made a pact. No matter how slow I had to run, I would finish the race. That pact came into my mind as my muscles started to burn when I circled around the halfway marker in front of Christo's. Runners were passing by as my phone playlist bellowed my favorite CeCe Winans' song, "He's a Wonder." I pressed my headphones in extra hard and looked skyward. This time I was praying. My ears were filled with the muffled sound of my own breath and a hummed a song of praise: "Thy truth reaches the clouds, Your mercy never runs out. We give you honor." I credit the hard lessons learned in races throughout the years with helping me to understand that it is mercy that allowed me to be there with a sound mind and relatively sound body. So I finished the Hawg Run strong, shoulders back, head raised, and regardless of how fast I ran, I finally felt like I won the race. Antionette Kerr is a freelance writer. You may email her at antionettekerr@alumni.unc.edu.